Couple's Therapy
by blank82
Summary: Tristin and Rory in couple's therapy. Trory. Oneshot.


**An idea proposed by luvs-bitch01**

This was hell.

He was very sorry to say, but this was hell. Originally, Tristin had actually considered his hell to be more picturesque: burning pits, pitchforks, Dean in painful red tights, the likes. But no…no no no-- this was much worse. And not a lot of things are worse than the more than rather disturbing image of your girlfriend's ex in skintight polyester.

He shifted impatiently in his seat on the scratchy lineal chair, shooting a conspicuous glance at Rory with the very, very corner of his eye seeing that he really didn't think she would appreciate it much if she knew he was having, ahem, dirty thoughts about the two of them in the middle of a therapy session.

By the time his gaze had traveled to her legs, however, she'd caught on. Rewarding him with a rather painful whack on the head.

Grumbling, he slinked back in his seat, making a mental note to burn the stupid scratchy chairs and buy the therapist wooden stools instead. Maybe then it'll encourage them to install a damn bar here at least

The therapist, as Tristin noted amusedly, was tiny. As a matter of fact, tiny was an understatement, this guy was a regular—

His snickering was cutoff by a rather painful (though he'll never admit it) stomp on the foot from Rory, who shot him a dirty look, or to specify, the terrifying 'be-nice-to-the-nosy-dwarf-or-you-won't-be-getting-any-tonight' look.

"DuGrey, Gilmore. It's good to meet you two, I'm Doyle Gellar," the tiny man greeted, taking hold on Tristins' hand and shaking it energetically, "My wife insisted I use her last name, she threatened me a paperweight, actually, but no matter." Tristin sent a meaningful look at Rory, he wasn't entirely sure it was the best to their worlds to take relationship advice from a guy who could barely keep his wife from bashing his head open with a paperweight.

The therapist continued, "Take a seat." Oh great. More scratchy chairs he'll have to burn. "And we could start by discussing exactly what the problem's been."

"Now that you mention it," Tristin began, resting his hands on the crook of his neck, "We have had some trouble agreeing on our positions in a situation we're in."

Rory shot him a warning look, "Tristin I swear—

The therapist shushed her, gesturing for him to continue, "It's important to be able to communicate and mutualize on certain points of views. Now you may not see each other eye-to-eye, but it's necessary to respect each others' positions on the situation at hand. Now, Mr. DuGrey, go on."

Ignoring the sharp kick to his shin, Tristin smirked and started, "Well we can't seem to agree on our sexual positions in bed. Last night, and every night for the past week actually, we've been going missionary. Now personally, I prefer—

"Towels," Rory cut in abruptly, seeing the poor therapist looked about on his way to temporary paralysis, "He… uses my towel. All the time. I tried to buy him his own towels, but they all end up piled high in our closet behind the…" the kink box. But she couldn't tell the therapist that, who was barely creeping out of his state of mild brain freeze, "Bibles."

Tristin choked back a laugh, which ended up more like a fascinating combination between a snort and the sound a donkey makes when it's constipated.

"Well," the doctor said, settling back into his comfort zone, "That complication can be easily resolved. Arguing over possessions is a very common—

"Excuse me," Tristin interrupted, ignoring the annoyed groan from Rory's part and the sound of her palm hitting her head in frustration, "By possession, do you mean, you know, over the right of ownership?"

"Why yes."

"Well then," he continued, shifting his position in the seat to avoid Rory's oncoming foot, "If I were to catch a certain Beanpole, let's just called him—oh I don't know, Bean, asking her to lunch, should I be even mildly upset? Or should I be smiling and grinning 'Sure honey, I don't mind you cheating on me at all!'"

"Cheat—Are you crazy?" she turned in her seat to shove him on the shoulder, "You, are the most infuriating, over-reactive, bastardly bastard I have ever met in my entire existence on this planet! It was lunch! He just got a promotion, he wanted to share the news with me!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure moving on from stacking carrots to piling asparagus is a huge accomplishment."

The doctor started to protest.

Tristin jabbed a vindictive finger at the poor little man, "You. Shut up!"

He shut up.

Tristin then turned back to Rory, "Repeat after me: Beanpole. Is. An. Ass. He's an ass out looking for ass. And you my friend," he cupped her face with his hands, "Are an ass."

Looking pretty pissed off for a female who'd just been called an ass, she pushed his hands away, "You did not just—

The therapist started to interrupt, "I think you—

"Shut up!"

"Shutting up."

She turned her smoldering gaze back to Tristin, "You did not just call me an ass."

"No, I called you an _ass._ There's a difference. You, are an _ass_, as in the good kind. And ass, the beanpole kind, is a dense idiot who has a fling with goldigging and conquering and dividing."

"I'm sorry, I don't speak pimpstitute."

"Seek, bang, categorize."

"What?"

"Sex-crazed with numerous bedfellows, splitting them into categories based on their STDs."

She scoffed, "Oh and you don't?"

He stared at her disbelievingly, "Hello Sherlock, in case you haven't noticed, I'm fucking in love with you. Which, might I add, sucks like ass considering _this_," he gestured around the room, "is what I get pulled into! While other twenty something year old guys are out, happily getting drunk and high and laid, I am here. In couple's therapy. With you. And him. And the scratchy chairs and the scary flower picture on the wall which looks mysteriously like a womans'…. Okay not my point. And you know what the sick part is? I like it!"

She stared at him in disgust, "The flower?"

"Oh hell no. This. Us, him, this," he waved his arms around to emphasize his point.

The therapist raised his eyebrow in amusement, which went unnoticed by either party.

Rory's face broke into a smile, "You mean that?"

"I'm willing to stick my head in a fishbowl for you. The empty fishbowl. You couldn't keep a pet alive if your life depended on it, you know."

"And you spend more time in the bathroom than all the males, and females for that matter, in the world combined."

She giggled as he took her hands and placed chaste kisses between the knuckles. "Your feet are disproportionate."

"You look like Eliyah from Fiddler on the Roof when you don't shave."

"Your elbows are disproportionate too."

"Your hair looks like Don King in the morning."

"You swim like a duck."

"You walk like a duck."

"Hey you think they have a coat room in here or something?"

"I think I saw a janitor's closet on our way in."

"That'll do," and with that closing line, the two eagerly started out the door. Leaving a very confused Doyle behind.

He looked thoughtfully after the happy couple and dialed a number on the phone, "Paris, hon, cancel the therapy session and meet me in the janitor's closet when you get home."

A pause. "We don't have a janitor's closet?"

Another pause. "No, you didn't hit my head with that lampshade too hard."

A longer pause. "We have a coatroom?"

A shorter pause. "That'll do."

He hung up, a satisfied smile on his face and a new therapidic strategy in order.


End file.
